


our duties in misfortune

by glorious_spoon



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Drugs, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Pre-Slash, Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 03:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9473030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glorious_spoon/pseuds/glorious_spoon
Summary: He’s extremely high by the time Illya finds him, so high, in fact, that he doesn’t realize what’s happening until his handcuffs are already off and there are warm hands chafing his wrists, a warm, exasperated voice swearing in Russian somewhere in the darkness above his head.Or: Napoleon gets himself kidnapped again, and Illya and Gaby break him out.





	

He’s extremely high by the time Illya finds him, so high, in fact, that he doesn’t realize what’s happening until his handcuffs are already off and there are warm hands chafing his wrists, a warm, exasperated voice swearing in Russian somewhere in the darkness above his head. It takes him a few tries to get his tongue to work. “Peril.”

The hands still, just for a moment, and then Illya says, “You are the most annoying man I've ever met.”

“Ouch,” Napoleon mutters, trying without much success not to lean into Illya’s hands too obviously. It’s just that he’s so damn cold, and Illya is giving off heat like a furnace. “And compared to the KGB, too.”

“KGB agents are dangerous. Frightening, even. You? Mostly just annoying.”

Napoleon laughs at that, a dry little rasp. His mouth is cottony and full of the bitter chemical taste of whatever they force-fed him earlier, and the room is spinning lazily around him. Illya’s hands seem to be the only thing anchoring him in place. “I think I may have been drugged.”

“Yes, I think you have. Can you stand?”

Napoleon considers this question with all the gravity it deserves. “No,” he decides finally. “No, I’m pretty sure I can’t. And I think I should stop talking. I might say something stupid.”

“You say many stupid things,” Illya says, his voice unusually gentle. He really must have been worried. “But please do stop talking. We are trying to be stealthy.”

“Where’s Gaby?”

“Taking care of alarm system. Now hush.”

Strong arms slide behind his shoulders and knees, and before he quite knows what’s happening, he’s pulled close against a furnace-hot body and the floor is swinging away beneath him as Illya stands with barely a grunt of effort. Napoleon lets his cheek fall against Illya’s chest, considers the picture he probably makes, being carried bridal-style in his underwear, and says, “You know, if I had any dignity to speak of, this would be very distressing.”

“Fortunately, you have no dignity,” Illya murmurs, sounding amused. “So is no problem, unless you continue to chatter.”

Napoleon opens his mouth to respond to that, and finds it muffled by a large, calloused hand.

“Hush,” Illya repeats, and lets go before Napoleon can do something embarrassingly juvenile, like lick his palm. He shifts his grip on Napoleon, and then they’re moving through the darkened hallways, Illya’s long stride as even as clockwork, as waves on a beach, and his familiar smells of soap and coffee and gunpowder are almost enough to banish the damp stink that seems to have taken up residence in Napoleon’s nasal cavity.

It’s been a very long two days. He thinks it’s been two days. They haven’t actually fed him anything other than drugged water, and without meals or windows it’s pretty hard to keep track of time.

He drifts for a little while, and blinks back to full awareness to the sound of Gaby’s sharp voice. “—happened to his _clothes?_ ”

“I couldn't find them,” Illya rumbles, sounding unconcerned. He’s still cradling Napoleon to his chest like a child, and the heat of him is very welcome. It seems even colder now, a sharp chill to the air and the smell of snow. They must be outside, then.

“Did you look?”

“Little bit. Not much. We were in a hurry. I had to kill four of the guards, did not want the rest getting curious.”

“Right, and now we’re in the middle of a snowstorm, and it’s going to be at least twenty minutes before our pick-up… what are you doing?”

“As you say,” Illya says, lowering Napoleon gently to the ground, which is unspeakably cold. Napoleon peers blearily up at him, and sees him shrugging out of his long woolen coat, snow swirling white around him and catching in his blond hair, his eyelashes, the hint of stubble on his cheek. Gaby is behind him, wrapped in fur from head to toe, looking exasperated. “Is middle of snowstorm, and he has no clothes.”

“And you think that both of you getting hypothermia is a better idea?”

“I won't get hypothermia. This would be mild spring day in Moscow.” He kneels back down in front of Napoleon and wraps the coat around his shoulders, buttoning it up to his throat like he’s a child and chuckling softly when he lets out a shameless moan and burrows into the warmth, tucking his chilled legs up and tugging the hem down to cover his ankles. “You doing okay, Cowboy?”

“I think I love you,” Napoleon slurs, entirely sincere, and rubs his nose against the scratchy wool. “I’m never giving this back.”

Illya’s large hand rests on his cheek for a moment, then ruffles his hair before withdrawing. “You can keep it.”

“I could kiss you, but I’ll restrain myself out of respect for your delicate sensibilities.”

There’s a snort from Gaby, and Napoleon opens his eyes in time to see Illya turn and shoot her a glare. When he looks back at Napoleon, his cheeks are pink. From the cold, maybe. “That will not be necessary, thank you.”

Napoleon blinks at him. “The kissing, or the restraining myself?”

Oh. No, that definitely _isn’t_ from the cold; Illya is as red as a beet now. “The kissing,” he says stiffly.

“Pity,” Napoleon mumbles, closing his eyes again. He can hear Gaby make a strangled noise of amusement, Illya’s sharp intake of breath, but it doesn’t seem important enough to focus on.

For a while, he drifts.

* * *

He wakes to warmth and disorienting motion, blinking lights above his head and the rumble of an engine below his ear. It takes him a moment to sort the sensory jumble out: a car. He’s in the backseat of a car, and it’s dark, and going by the speed, Gaby is driving. His head is resting on a solid, muscular thigh that can only belong to Illya, and there’s a hand in his hair, absently petting.

“... from Waverly,” he hears Illya say from above him.

“Rendezvous in Zurich,” Gaby replies. “He left instructions with the night clerk at the hotel.”

“Long drive.”

“Are you worried about Napoleon?”

There’s a note in Gaby’s voice that sounds almost speculative, but if Illya hears it, he doesn’t respond. His warm fingers graze Napoleon’s temple briefly before pushing back into his hair, and he says, “No. Drug should flush itself out of his system in a few hours. I’ve seen similar, with KGB. He’ll need to eat, though. They weren’t feeding him.”

“ _Arschlöcher._ ”

“ _Da,_ ” Illya agrees. “He’ll be alright. We got to him in time.”

“What if we hadn’t?”

“We did,” Illya says firmly. “There is no purpose in ‘what if’.”

Napoleon can’t muster the amount of energy it would take to open his eyes and actually join the conversation, but privately, he agrees. His imagination supplied plenty of gruesome possibilities during his time in the cell; he doesn’t need it supplemented by Illya’s no doubt extensive knowledge of hideous interrogation techniques. They got him out in time. They’ll rendezvous with Waverly and try to salvage the scraps of the mission, and hopefully in the meantime he can get a square meal or four.

On that pleasant thought, he sinks back into sleep.

* * *

When he wakes up again, the pleasant drug-induced lassitude has dissipated entirely, and his head is pounding. Everything is bright and cold and way too loud, and he levers himself upright, rubbing at his eyes, trying to orient himself. A large hand braces his shoulder, supporting him: Illya.

“We’re here,” he says, when Napoleon squints at him.

“Okay. Where’s here?”

“Dolder Grand hotel,” Illya says, then adds, unnecessarily, “Zurich.”

“Fancy,” Napoleon says, surprised. It’s not necessary for their cover, unless mission parameters have drastically shifted in the 48 hours or so he was missing; when it’s not necessary for their cover, Illya nearly always insists on getting the cheapest rooms Napoleon will tolerate.

Illya’s mouth twitches. “You can thank Gaby.”

“Oh, I will.” He rubs his temples, swings his legs out of the car, and only then remembers that he’s wearing Illya’s overcoat and practically nothing else. “I’ll thank her even more if she can scrounge up some clothes for me. This isn’t exactly my best look.”

“I don’t know,” Illya says, and yeah: he’s definitely laughing at Napoleon now. “I think it suits you.”

Before Napoleon can formulate an appropriately scathing response to that, Gaby appears, looking remarkably polished for a woman who just broke someone out of an underground Swiss bunker and drove four hours in a stolen car. “Our room is ready,” she says to Illya, and then, to Napoleon, “and I’m having the kitchen send up some food. You look like you need it.”

“You are my very favorite person,” Napoleon tells her.

She gives him an arch look. “I doubt that.”

Illya is watching the exchange with an unreadable look on his face; abruptly, Napoleon remembers offering, more or less completely seriously, to kiss him, and he feels heat flare in his cheeks. It’s quite possibly the first time in _years_ that he’s really, truly blushed, and of course if would be over Illya. Of fucking course.

It’s Illya who breaks the silence. “Ground is cold. You want help, Cowboy?”

The nickname makes something twist inside him, and he does, he really does— but he’s not helpless, he’s not drugged, he can walk just fine on his own, thank you, so he says, “No, thanks, I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Illya shrugs and steps back to let him get out of the car. “Suit yourself.”

He regrets his decision the instant his bare feet hit the icy pavement, but he manages to brave it until they make it into the lobby, where the plush carpet it such a relief that he groans out loud. Illya snorts; the desk clerk is wearing a studiously blank expression, but really, if Napoleon knows anything about his business (which he does), the clerks here have all likely seen much stranger things than a barefoot, half-naked, and rather battered-looking American thief. Napoleon gives her a smile, but it’s not up to his usual standard and he’s not surprised when she just blinks at him like she’s concerned about his sanity.

“They have already taken our things up,” Gaby says from behind him, putting a small hand in the middle of his back and propelling him forward. Illya looms like a shadow in her wake.

“My bags?” he asks hopefully, glancing back at her. They were in the car when he was snatched, so he has no real hope that they were recovered, but still.

“Sorry.”

He sighs. Ah, well. It’s off to Savile Row with him when they finally make it back to London, then. Rough luck. Waverly isn’t nearly as forgiving of his little side projects as his previous handlers, and funding a proper wardrobe isn’t nearly as easy on an agent’s salary, particularly given the calamitous accidents that seem to befall his clothes on a regular basis these days.

“I have spare clothes,” Illya says. “You can borrow, if you like.”

“Do you have spare shoes? Mine were Ferragamo.”

“That are small enough and pretty enough to suit you?” Illya raises his eyebrows, perfectly deadpan. “Probably not.”

“I’ll go buy you some shoes,” Gaby hisses before Napoleon can retort, “if we can _go_ before you attract any more attention.”

“All right, all right,” Napoleon sighs. Gaby is right, as she usually is. As soothing as it is to spar pointlessly with Illya, they probably don’t need to be doing it in the middle of the lobby. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Gaby only booked a single suite, but it’s palatial enough that it doesn’t really matter; you could probably sleep a football team in here, if they were feeling cozy. There’s a tray with soup and toast and fresh fruit waiting for them when they get up there, as well as a steaming bath; Napoleon wavers uncertainly between the two until Gaby shoves him unceremoniously down onto the white leather sofa and sets the tray in his lap. “Eat,” she says. “I’m not hauling you out of the bathtub if you pass out in there.”

“You are a wise woman,” Napoleon tells her, and digs in. The soup is something hearty and meaty and it tastes so good that his mouth cramps with pleasure at the first bite, although realistically even stale gruel would taste like a king’s feast right now. He forces himself to swallow carefully and wait a moment to see if his stomach is about to rebel before he takes another bite. “But I’m pretty sure Peril could manage it.”

“Getting unconscious American spies out of bathtub is not in my job description,” Illya says from the other room. In the mirror, Napoleon can see the curve of his back, the flex of muscles under his shirt as he roots through his bag. He comes back up with a handful of clothing, which he brings back and sets down on the sofa next to Napoleon. Pants and a turtleneck, both dark gray, both large enough that they’d be loose on Illya and will positively hang off of Napoleon’s shorter frame. A pair of socks is folded neatly on top. “Here.”

“What, no underwear?” Napoleon asks, just to see him blush.

“You can go without,” Illya says stonily, cheeks red, and sits down on the far end of the sofa. Napoleon beams at him. He can almost feel the weight of Gaby’s glare, but he ignores it. Baiting Illya is one of the few simple pleasures in his life, and he’ll be damned if he’ll forego it now, when his head is pounding and his joints feel weak and he’s quite sure that the moment he tries to sleep he’ll see that damn doctor leaning over him with a syringe and a ghoulish smile. Too many more episodes like this, and he’s going to develop a complex.

“They’re probably not small enough or pretty enough for me, anyway,” he says sweetly.

Illya glares at him. Gaby rolls her eyes extravagantly and gets to her feet. “I’m going to sleep,” she says. “Illya, make sure he doesn’t drown in the bathtub.”

Before either of them can retort or try to protest, she’s gone.

* * *

When he puts the clothes on, though, he can’t fault Illya’s selection. The material is soft, with no seams to rub and abrade at tender skin. Everything is comfortable enough to sleep in, which was probably intentional. Illya doesn’t own pajamas; he strips to sleep, a fascinating detail that Napoleon picked up in Marrakesh. These are probably the closest analog he has, and he gave them to Napoleon. It’s thoughtful in a way that probably shouldn’t still be unexpected.

Gaby is either asleep or doing a very good impression of it when he comes out of the bathroom, curled up on one of the broad sofas under a silky afghan; Illya is sitting in a pool of lamplight, head bent over a paperback novel. The lettering on the front is Cyrillic, and Napoleon can’t read it from where he stands.

“Tolstoy?” he asks.

“No.”

“Dostoevsky?”

Illya snorts and puts the book down, holding his place with one large thumb. “There are other writers, you know.”

Napoleon steps closer and peers at the cover. “Doctor Zhivago? Is that really appropriate bedtime reading for a good Soviet boy such as yourself?”

“Sentimental bourgeois trash,” Illya says with no real ire. “But it is useful to understand other perspectives, even if they are misguided.”

“You know, the CIA was involved in the publication of the first Russian-language edition. Hoped to embarrass the USSR.”

“Why do you think I’m reading it?”

“To better know the enemy?” Napoleon asks, grinning.

“Something like that.”

Illya isn’t smiling, but Napoleon can read amusement in the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes. The lamplight picks out threads of gold in his hair and his soft pullover clings flatteringly to the solid lines of his torso. The image is a far cry from the stoic Russian attack dog Napoleon first met in Berlin. It would be easy to think of him as a different man entirely, if it weren’t for the battered state of his knuckles and the narrow line of abrasion that’s just visible under his jaw, as though someone tried and failed to get a garrote around his neck.

 _I had to kill four guards_ , Napoleon remembers him saying. There were no gunshots; that would have been too loud. He did it barehanded.

He clears his throat and looks away. “Anyway, I never did thank you for getting me out of there.”

“You’re welcome.”

“I promise I won’t make a habit of it. The getting-kidnapped thing, I mean.”

“I think we would all appreciate that,” Illya says, and yeah— he’s definitely laughing at Napoleon now. The amusement makes him look softer than he usually does, _young_ , and it’s that, maybe that makes Napoleon give into the sudden impulse to reach out and ruffle his hair.

He’s expecting to get his hand slapped away, but instead Illya reaches up and catches it, tangling their fingers together.

Napoleon blinks at him. “Peril?”

“Cowboy,” Illya says calmly. His fingers are rough, the knuckles slightly swollen. He’s watching Napoleon, and there’s something thoughtful, almost… curious in his blue eyes.

For a moment he almost considers closing the space between them, leaning down and kissing the soft line of Illya’s mouth— and then, three feet away, Gaby snuffles softly in her sleep and turns over. Napoleon jerks his hand away like he was touching a hot stove, and Illya lets him go.

Clearing his throat, Napoleon nods toward the bed. “Well, I guess I should, ah, get some rest.”

He’s not looking forward to it. He knows the habits of his own brain, and he’s perfectly well-aware than he’s in for a night of frustrated insomnia broken by terrifying dreams. Nothing for it, though. Hopefully he won’t embarrass all three of them by shouting the place down.

Illya looks at him, then at the bed, then back at him, and raises his eyebrows.

“Unless you want the bed,” Napoleon adds. He’s half-tempted to suggest they share, but doesn’t.

“No,” Illya says. He slides a bookmark into his book, sets it aside, and reaches for a slim, well-made wooden box. His chess set. It’s perhaps the single extravagance he possesses, other than his father’s watch. “But perhaps a game of chess, first? Gaby does not play.”

“Neither do I, at least not well,” Napoleon says, but he sits down anyway, feeling relieved.

“I’ll go easy on you,” Illya says, flipping open the board and beginning to set it up.

Napoleon snorts, watching Illya’s large, battered hands on the carved chess pieces. They’re plain enough, if well-made; sturdy enough to survive the itinerant life of a spy, but not so valuable that they’d be difficult to replace. Practical, like everything else about Illya. “No, you won’t.”

That earns him a brief, sudden flash of a smile. “No, I won’t.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“Are you familiar with famous Russian joke about chess?”

Napoleon groans. “No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me anyway.”

“In a park,” Illya says, “people come across a man playing chess with a dog. They are astonished and say: "What a clever dog!" But the man protests: "No, no, he isn't that clever. I'm leading by three games to one!"

Napoleon covers his face with both hands and drops his head back against the cushion, helpless laughter bubbling up in his throat. “I suppose in this scenario, I’m the dog,” he manages finally.

“Of course not,” Illya says, perfectly deadpan, and spins the board toward him. “It’s your move, Cowboy.”

**Author's Note:**

> The CIA really did publish a [Russian-language version of _Doctor Zhivago_](https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/national-security/during-cold-war-cia-used-doctor-zhivago-as-a-tool-to-undermine-soviet-union/2014/04/05/2ef3d9c6-b9ee-11e3-9a05-c739f29ccb08_story.html?utm_term=.5faa5b815911), which Boris Pasternak had smuggled out of the USSR in 1957. The original publication was an Italian translation.


End file.
